


Warn the Wicked

by ChristyCorr



Category: The Handmaid's Tale (TV)
Genre: F/F, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Internalized Homophobia, Internalized Misogyny, Pre-Canon, Religious Fanaticism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-15 11:56:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13030551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChristyCorr/pseuds/ChristyCorr
Summary: "Yet if thou warn the wicked, and he turn not from his wickedness, nor from his wicked way, he shall die in his iniquity, but thou hast delivered thy soul." (Ezekiel 3:19, KJV)





	Warn the Wicked

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tekuates](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tekuates/gifts).



Lydia was thirteen the first time she felt God's hand upon her.

Her family had always been pious, of course, but this was something else. Father came home one day with holy fire in his eyes. He spoke of a small new group, of how he'd felt during the meeting, of how brightly God's anointing shone in those people. Mother just went on with the housework, didn't ask; she rarely did. But Lydia was curious. Their usual church infuriated Father more often than not, with their fellow churchgoers all too happy to let sins fester. If this was different—well, she could barely imagine what that could be like.

Father brought her along the next time, and she understood. 

The pastor at the Sons of Jacob group stood tall, a head above Father, even, and his booming voice was that of an avenging angel. The congregation sat in a circle around him as he preached. No one could look away.

"Son of man, I have made thee a watchman unto the house of Israel." He held an open Bible, but quoted from memory. Lydia's heart was beating along with the words, and she could hear God calling her, right there and then, a roaring fire come to summon her to His service. This was it. "Therefore hear the word at My mouth, and give them warning from Me.

"When I say unto the wicked, Thou—shalt— _surely_ —die!" 

He banged his Bible shut and waved it at the world outside. Some amens followed. He nodded slowly, and looked at each of them in turn. He could see into their very souls. 

"And thou givest him not warning, nor speakest to warn the wicked from his wicked way, to save his life…" His voice was soft now. Disappointed, like the Lord. Even brought down to a whisper, it shook something deep within Lydia. "The same wicked man shall die in his iniquity; but his blood will I require at thine hand."

More amens, louder this time. She'd read the verses before, but never like this. She could almost feel the cloying blood on her fingers, tears running down her cheeks. How could she not have known? Oh Lord, she had not done enough, she had never been enough. She was too unclean, too imperfect, too horrible. Father had always said.

"Yet if thou warn the wicked, and he turn not from his wickedness, nor from his wicked way, he shall die in his iniquity." He knelt before her. His smile was full of promise. "But thou hast delivered thy soul."

Lydia burned, enraptured.

**

She was sixteen when Mother left.

There was the usual bout of yelling, on the louder side this time. Mother was stubborn and capricious. Always thought she knew better, always so self-righteous and prideful. She had strayed so far from the light that she hated the Sons of Jacob and how involved Lydia had become with the Lord's work. She hated Rev. Gideon, said cruel things that made his eyes flash with anger when Lydia told him, curling up against the safety and warmth of him.

She hated Father, too, cursing him even as he shared with her the Lord's love and discipline. 

There wasn't much Mother didn't hate these days. 

The Lord might have mercy on her someday. The Reverend told Lydia to pray for her soul, and she did. (Sometimes.)

**

Nineteen years old, now, and it was a constant struggle for her not to hate everyone.

Lydia should've known better than to think a Christian college would mean knowing others who shared her true beliefs, but it was beyond disgusting. All the girls were vapid and thoughtless. The men were repugnant. It was no wonder the Lord would soon destroy this earth, if these bedeviled snakes were thought to be holy.

She prayed and studied and fought to feel the greatness of God's love. For all her readings, she could not see it, could never truly know it. She was all sharp edges and red-hot steel, a weapon forged in this hellfire to bring judgment. God's regret and anger she could sense within her, but love seemed unfathomable. Her classmates seemed to think loving others meant either gossiping or fornicating, and Lydia had no interest in either. She had to be meeker, Rev. Gideon said in their weekly phone calls, humble and sweet, and then she would understand. 

She sought to take his admonishments to heart, but she didn't know how. The Reverend warned her against letting bitterness take root inside her. Her rage for the wicked should burn pure, untainted by petty grievances. She couldn't let these people get to her. She prayed and prayed to be better. Father she spoke to less often. He was working full-time for the group now, body and soul consumed. She looked forward to it herself, too. Surely this would be easier once she was among her people.

The Reverend entrusted her with starting a new cell on campus, though it was a challenge to find faithful candidates. One of the first she decided to approach was Margaret, a student in her year. Quiet, modest Margaret never gossiped like the others, or painted herself like a whore. 

Her clothes were large and shapeless, too, her hair long and flowy as the Lord intended. She could recite beautifully when demanded, but she never spoke up otherwise, preferring instead just to watch everything and everyone. Lydia watched Margaret from a distance, admired her countenance, too humbled to look closer, let alone say something. 

_Soft_. That was what the Reverend meant, surely; that was what Lydia should be like. Not this brash, outspoken, gnarly thing. She could see something like irritation behind Margaret's gaze sometimes when their classmates spoke, something in the clenched line of her jaw betraying contempt for these vermin. But a mere breath later it was gone, Margaret's smiling face all neutral, placid warmth. Lydia didn't know if Margaret ever watched her back—if Lydia, too, was found wanting.

How could she do it? Margaret preferred silent corners and reading to rowdy discussions. She wasn't like the others. Lydia couldn't just walk up to her and make a fool of herself—she had nothing that impressive to say. She agonized for weeks, months, over how best to approach Margaret. Lydia was used to feeling inadequate, but this, this was almost torture. It felt like a fever, sometimes, her brain running through so many scenarios, all ending in disaster.

In the end, it happened by pure chance, when a professor assigned them a presentation on Aquinas together. 

It turned out to be so easy. Like the touch of sleep after a hard day's work; like ice water on a hot summer afternoon. They started talking and just couldn't stop.

**

Lydia was twenty, and she had never been this happy before.

"That's fascinating," Margaret would say sometimes when they talked, tilting her head and looking at Lydia like she meant it. Warmth flooded Lydia from the inside, and she felt like she could almost burst with it as she basked in Margaret's attention.

They talked so much nowadays. Margaret thought deeply about God, religion, everything. She often brought up new angles and perspectives—her questions were almost blasphemous, sometimes, but she was clearly seeking God's real truth. Lydia could understand that. And she wanted to hear what Lydia had to say about things, and _listened_ to her like no one had before. It was a heady feeling, and it made Lydia greedy.

Maybe they could start a Sons of Jacob group together. They could balance each other out, together at the helm of a small, strong cell of believers. Lydia guarded these dreams close, waiting, delighting in Margaret slowly growing closer to her, to the Lord, to their bright, undeniable destiny.

But then she found out. Margaret dreamed of being a singer, she confessed one night, the two of them lying side by side on the grass outside in the dark. Not a church singer. She wanted… something different, she said, and her voice broke.

Lydia's breath caught in her throat. 

"But—but your family," Lydia stammered, mind buzzing with too many thoughts at once. Margaret had a lot of strange ideas and questions, but this—this was too much to even consider. Surely she knew abandoning her calling to work in the satanic entertainment industry would be betraying the Lord. Margaret rarely spoke about her parents, but her father was a famous minister. What would his flock think? Her little sister? How could she choose to damn her own soul?

The sound of Margaret's shallow breaths was loud under the stars. Lydia turned, and saw a tear at the corner of her eye. What could she say other than to condemn and judge? What comfort could she be to someone destroying themselves? Who was she to even think of providing comfort? How could Margaret do this to Lydia? Why?

"I'm supposed to forget," Margaret said, and Lydia could hardly make out the words now. "I'm not supposed to—I'm—I—" 

Her dry sobs grew faster, shallower, and she seemed to struggle for breath, her face contorting in pain. Lydia watched her heaving chest and didn't know what to do, couldn't think, couldn't—nothing made sense anymore. A wave of panic rose within her. She found her fingers reaching for Margaret's, moved by an urge she couldn't put into words. She had to fix this, she had to help—she had to do something to keep Margaret from suffering.

Margaret grabbed her like a lifeline. Lydia felt herself process this in parts, as if her brain couldn't handle it. Margaret's grip was so strong. Her nails dug into Lydia's hand, like she was afraid to let go. Or that Lydia would let go. She wouldn't—couldn't make herself do it now, not for anything in the world. She could barely think beyond a desperate haze, the possessive, suffocating need to keep her whole. To protect her.

Margaret was _hers_. Lydia wasn't going to lose her to anyone or anything else.

Maybe this was what God's love was meant to be—maybe she had to love Margaret even though she was touched by the Devil. It wasn't even hard.

When Margaret turned to face her, her eyes were bright. Their fingers were still entangled.

"Do you understand, Lydia?"

Her voice was so small. Something deep inside Lydia ached.

"I don't want to lose you," Lydia breathed out, unable to decipher the look on Margaret's face. She didn't know, but she _knew_ , and she couldn't, she couldn't.

In the space of a breath, Margaret had leaned forward. Lydia felt the brush of her curls against her neck, first, the alien brush of a nose against hers, a warm exhale, and the lightest touch of lips on hers.

Her thoughts were pure static. Maybe she really was responding; maybe it actually was Lydia who was making these noises. She couldn't say. Her skin was burning, Margaret's fingertips on her neckline a firebrand that made her gasp for air. Lydia's arms acted on an instinct she didn't know she had, wrapping around Margaret's waist and bringing her closer.

What on earth was she doing?

Lydia reared back in horror. What was this? What was this woman doing to her? Her stomach roiled. She blinked against a wave of dizziness, bile sour in her mouth.

"This is disgusting," she spat. "You whore, you _Jezebel_! How dare you?"

Margaret's eyes widened. But oh, Lydia wouldn't be deceived by her disguise anymore. She understood now; she could see with perfect clarity. What an idiot she'd been. She'd thought they were friends, when all Margaret wanted was to tempt her from the Lord's path. An agent of Satan himself, and Lydia had fallen for it, hook, line, and sinker. But no more. 

She turned away and stood, wiping her hands on her skirt. She had never felt this unclean. How many baths, how many hours of prayer, until she got rid of this stain? She couldn't believe she'd let herself be fooled for so long. The knowledge of it suffocated her.

"I'll pray for you, Margaret," she said, without looking back. "I'll pray that you find your way back to the Lord and that He'll help you chase away your demons. But don't you ever come near me again."

**

By twenty-six, a bone-deep rancor far beyond her years had settled in. 

Now back home, she lived a pious and circumspect life. A schoolteacher, she also taught Sunday school at the local church, and worked tirelessly recruiting and maintaining the Sons of Jacob. Rev. Gideon was gone now, but his replacement, Rev. Lee, had ideas and plans. The time was coming soon, they knew, when their little group would be the only resistance left against the forces of the Antichrist. They had to be prepared. They had to warn others.

People asked her about relationships, sometimes, about kids, but less and less often now. They understood she was married to the service of others, to the mission God had given her. She'd long since decided matrimony wasn't for her. 

She'd truly liked small children once, perhaps. No more. But God had given her this calling, and she obeyed. His love, she now understood, was a heavy rod that spared none among His children. Her responsibility was to bring wayward sheep back to the flock, whatever it took. Every year the children seemed to grow worse, too—like their parents, rotting from the inside, disrespectful and brainless. Perverted, disgusting little hellhounds, trying so hard to seem older and more streetwise. All that did was deliver them deeper and deeper into Satan's clutches. 

She still fought to save the children from damnation, no matter what; it was her duty. So few listened. It angered her sometimes, but she'd found her peace knowing that all she had to do was try. The sweetness when a rebellious soul learned to bend almost made it all worth it.

And, well, if they didn't heed her, it was only a matter of time until the Lord would cause them to burn.

**

She was thirty-five, and the world was changing.

God's judgment for this fornicating generation was being brought to life, and it was killing the perverts by the thousands. Inexplicable, the newscasters said. A medical mystery. But of course everyone should know better. She should weep for the lost potential, and in her best moments she did spare their immortal souls a thought, but deep down she was certain that they deserved it. The sinful, unrepentant lot of them should go, and the sooner the better. Let the good and the deserving inherit the earth, while the bedeviled suffered for their sins.

The purges were only starting, and God willing, many more would follow. She prayed that He'd soon cleanse this evil-ridden world with fire, and knew in her heart that her prayers would soon be answered. Those who remained would be purer for it. 

(It was mostly men, they said. It could be anyone, they also said sometimes. Sometimes Lydia almost caught herself wondering if maybe Margaret—)

The Lord's will be done.

**

Forty-eight. Time flew when one was fighting the good fight.

She could hardly believe she'd been at this for decades, but her labors had borne so much fruit. The Sons of Jacob were a glorious holy army, now, and her local chapter grew new offshoots every year. They were preparing, stockpiling supplies and ammunition, praying and training recruits to fight in body and spirit. The trials and tribulations would be glorious. These were exciting times.

The younger ones fell obediently into formation in time with her whistle as she walked them through drills, had them recite their verses, checked their sharpshooting targets. So many had learned discipline at her knees by now. She was the face of the Lord's love, tough and earnest. Unforgiving of the unrepentant.

"Aunt Lydia," said a wisp of a girl who couldn't be more than sixteen, walking up to her during morning training. Newly arrived from Missouri, wasn't she? Miss Blake.

"Yes, dear?"

"I saw Jennifer sneaking out behind the meal tent with Collins last night." Miss Blake's eyes were full of reproach. "I don't know how long they were there, but I could hear—noises."

Every group had its serpents lurking, spreading sin and corruption. Even now, in the face of the apocalypse. 

"Thank you, Miss Blake. Would you like to do some extra target practice today?"

The girl beamed, and Lydia sent her along to the shooting area. After the battle was won, women could return to their rightful place, of course. But right now, this young lady belonged on the front lines, like the rest of them. Like Lydia herself. 

Thank the Lord for girls like Miss Blake. They weren't like the others. True disciples, even as their fellows succumbed to temptation. Boys could never be trusted—it was in their nature to be weak to the flesh and succumb to sin—but girls, girls were the true vipers, spreading their vices and lies in secret. Lydia would purify each and every one here into a soldier, starting with this Jennifer.

Lydia knew she would surely never have children of her own, now, but that was true of almost everyone these days. Generations of charges were her spiritual children, and what a good job she'd done with them. They were all clay in God's hands now, by the sweat of her brow. They would make her proud before the Lord.

She had learned to smile more, too, in the past few years. Time was running out for this wicked world, and the revenge of the just was coming.

**

Lydia was sixty-one, and they'd won the war.

This had used to be a high school, once. Her fellow Aunts—Elizabeth, Helena, and the others—had worked tirelessly to prepare it ahead of time, but supplies were still hard to secure. Rebel groups threw themselves at Gilead's convoys everywhere, and sometimes succeeded. Commander Waterford had promised that he would get them at least enough Bibles to go around. Blankets. Cattle prods.

It was such a glorious new start. Lydia was beyond herself with excitement to be a part of it. A new promised land! Finally they could shape it to fit God's rules—finally they could start healing their population of centuries of godlessness and bring them to happiness.

She'd never wanted a leadership position, but she was the natural choice to head the new Boston Red Center. Rev. Lee—Commander Lee now—said God needed her to step up, and she knew in her heart that it was true. Someone had to show these lost girls the way, help them understand their real purpose.

They started arriving one by one, some in pairs; some yelling, others whimpering, others sulking. They cried when left to their own devices at night; the Aunts let them. Let them mourn their old world, their old lives. They'd learn anew how to dress, how to act, how to think. _Behold, all things are become new._

On their first training day, Lydia was the first to go up to the front of the classroom. Rows of girls filled the room, all decked in red, ready to be remade. Some still had tear-red eyes. 

Lydia smiled. "Good morning, girls."

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Yuletide, tekuates! I found your prompts fascinating—I hope you like this!
> 
> Huge thanks to L and J for the betaing and fact-checking ♥


End file.
